Holy Water and a Handgun
by gin and ironic
Summary: Sam and Dean end up with the unlikeliest of allies. Gen for now, slash in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Holy Water and a Handgun  
Author: Gin  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Rating: R  
Summary: Sam and Dean end up with the unlikeliest of allies. Gen for now, slash in later chapters.  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, locations, and situations used herein, and I make no profit from said usage.  
Notes: I got this really strange idea and started writing it down. Doesn't appear as though it's likely to stop. Ooops. Some spoilers for s2, set between the beginning of s2 and, say, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things. Rather ambiguous time frame.

Chapter One

_Sulphur, Louisiana._

The bar was dark. These kinds of bars usually were; the clientele needed more than beer goggles to appeal to each other. It smelled of smoke, piss, and cheap pot, God only knew what else. Dean picked up a pool stick, hung up his jacket the now vacant dowel, and told the waitress they wanted a pitcher.

"We're not here to shoot the shit, Dean," Sam said, ever disapproving.

"Do you have 75 cents?" Dean asked, because arguing the point never got him anything but frustrated.

"What?"

"75 cents for the game, Sam." He held out his palm, cupped it expectantly.

Sam scowled but dug around in his pockets for some quarters, fingers bulging against the denim. This pair of jeans, like all his others, hung off his hips and made him look like a sixteen year old who liked getting high behind the mall. No one'd carded him, though, compliments of his height and freaky Stretch Armstrong doll limbs.

Dean scored the quarters and set up the game. Sam broke while Dean chalked his stick with exaggerated relish. Sam _hated_ pool. He sunk and went again. Dean's eyes wandered over what he could see of the customers. Mostly pickled old guys who needed their beards checked for lice. A few women sat at bar stools, legs like sausage encased in pantyhose.

"Don't think I see 'em."

"Who?"

"The contact we're meeting, dumbass." Sam blew the shot and the white cue ball danced across the table, aimless. He wasn't easy to rattle, but Dean smirked like he'd caused him to ruin the shot anyway. "Nice, Sammy."

"Shut up."

The waitress came with their pitcher and Dean slapped a ragged fiver on her tray. He gulped his, his mouth had tasted funny all day, and set the mug down with a satisfied _ahhh_. He moved around the table until he found a spot he liked.

"You didn't tell me we had an actual contact," Sam said, a little sour.

"You're a smart boy, I thought you'd figure it out."

"I'm not a mind reader, Dean."

"Really now." Score. The click and tumble of pocketing one undercut his statement. Sam's mouth flattened into a hard line, and he looked away, took a drink.

"So," Sam said, once he'd officially let the silence linger on into uncomfortable territory. "Who's this contact?"

"I dunno."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Uh?"

Dean sighed and set down the stick. He went to the wall for his jacket and pulled out a letter, folded in half. "They gave me this at the front desk earlier."

Sam took it and unfolded it. On the front it was addressed to the McVey brothers (Dean thought it was funny, Sam thought he was sick, not like any of that was new), but when he opened it up, his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch.

_"Who knew the famous Winchester boys would show up in Sulphur. No doubt here on that bullshit Vodun scam. Sorry to hear about your daddy. Got something that might be interesting for you, want to meet tonight at the bar on 23rd?"_

It wasn't signed. There was an inky mark on the bottom of the page that, on first glance, looked like it might be a smudged fingerprint. On second, Sam realized, it was a very small and mostly illegible sigil. He leaned closer into what little light there was and peered.

"Huh."

"What?"

"It's got…" Sam gestured, and Dean leaned over. "Look familiar?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "Don't remember seeing it in dad's journal, but that doesn't mean anything."

Sam frowned. "We should probably check it out before we meet with whoever this is."

"Are you kidding? We've got a lead. They know about the Voodoo priest we've been chasing, and they know about _dad_, so it's not like--"

"Just because they know about dad doesn't mean they're a friend or something. Sorry to rain on your parade, man, but this could be a trap."

Dean shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hips against the now-forgotten pool table. "So? I've got holy water and a handgun."

Sam snorted.

--

They totally abandoned the game of pool -- Dean would have won anyway -- and sat down to nurse their mugs of beer. Dean was on his second when the waitress, possibly the most good-looking person in the establishment (obviously excluding him, who won that title without even trying), came by with a tray of top-shelf American Straight whiskey.

"Uh, we didn't order that," Sam complained, and Dean could have kicked him for looking such a gift horse in the mouth.

"I know." Her voice sounded as tired as she looked. "Girl bought them for you. She's in the back."

Dean's eyebrow went up. Sam didn't look too excited and even shoved his in Dean's direction. "In the back, huh?" he asked, but she was already back on her way to the bar.

"Maybe it's our contact," Sam said.

"Maybe it's some lovely lady's lucky night."

--

The back room wasn't any brighter than the front, but the shitty country music wasn't as loud and there weren't twenty people all smoking at once. It took Dean a moment to spot the girl. She was the only one there -- girl, that is; there were a few drunk guys hanging around -- and she was looking at Sam and Dean where they stood in the doorway. Dean nudged Sam in the ribs.

"Here we go," Sam muttered, but followed Dean toward her anyway.

"Was I right to get you the whiskey?" she asked in a funny sort of drawl. It wasn't quite the accent they'd been hearing in Louisiana. Dean studied her, trying not to be obvious, and decided she was barely old enough to drink. She had her black jacket tucked around her shoulders like a blanket and her red-brown hair pulled into a messy bun. Hard to tell under the damn jacket and in this light if she was worth going home with.

Dean pulled out one of the chairs at her table, turned it around, and sat down. He folded his arms over the back of the chair and smiled at her. "Absolutely."

"Have a seat, Sam," she instructed, and Sam did. He looked a little less at ease straddling the chair than Dean did, but then his knees were bumping the table. "Thought you weren't going to show up," she continued, conversational but detached. "Thought maybe you didn't get my note."

"No, we got it."

She smiled at Sam and reached for a packet of Marlboros on the table in front of her. She took her time pulling one out and looked at Dean expectantly. "Give me your lighter." Dean didn't smoke, at least not unless he was too drunk to remember he didn't, but he carried around a Bic lighter for moments just like these. He pulled it out and she leaned toward the flame. "Many thanks."

"So, uh," Sam began, because he just wasn't fucking content to sit back and watch the game unfold. He was really bad at checkers for the same reason. "What's this sigil mean?" He slid the note across the table to her.

"You really don't know?"

"No."

For some reason this made her smile again. "Well, maybe I was too obscure." She leaned back, puffed, and settled in more comfortably. "It doesn't matter, the sigil's bullshit anyway. It's meant to stand for the Illuminati."

Dean and Sam traded a look. Sam started to speak again, but the girl stopped him.

"Don't worry over it, boys. It was a joke. It's not why you're here." She didn't leave them time to ask why, just kept going like she was rehearsed or didn't give a damn for their input. "I need the kind of help only hunters can give."

"How did you know who we are?" Dean asked, same time Sam came out with;

"What's your name, anyway?"

She gave Sam another one of her privately amused smiles and flicked ash onto the tabletop. "I don't give just anyone my name, Sam Winchester. I'm not stupid."

"Okay," Sam said suspiciously. He licked his lips and looked like he wanted to say more, but wasn't sure of what. Dean thought it might have been prudent to mention that they weren't just _anyone_ and clearly she knew it, but that might have sounded ridiculous.

"You two should know better than anyone the kind of things people can do when they know your name. I really don't think you'd care to hear mine, anyway."

"Why's that?" Dean asked.

Took her time with that one. She pulled two more drags out of the cigarette and stabbed it out in the ashtray. Eventually she looked at them, capturing both their gazes with her one, and smiled. Again. It was getting downright annoying.

She was still smiling, pretty as you please, when her eyes flashed yellow-red.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Dean went for his gun within the space of a blink, but it didn't matter; the gun dropped from his hand and flew across the room, like it'd been snatched and hurled by an unseen opponent. He glanced at Sam, who was edging toward the door, but Dean seriously doubted he'd have much luck getting out.

"Fuckin' bitch," Dean said, because what else can you say when faced with a situation as utterly screwed as his and Sam's.

The girl shrugged. Her eyes were still that yellow-red, he noted, which was kind of unnerving and not at all promising. Usually meant demon, and not the straightforwardly exorcized, black-eyed, _Hi I'm possessing someone so read some Latin and throw around some holy water _kind. She could be something else, some sort of sprite or creature, but with Dean's luck, no.

They were so fucked. At least he still had the holy water.

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

"I said you wouldn't care." She stubbed out her cigarette and left it balanced on the side of the ashtray. Sam and Dean both jerked when she stood up, tsking at them. "You didn't need your gun. It's unnecessary, and messy, and how would you explain it to the cops?"

"What do you want with us?" Sam continued with the questions, like he was the one interrogating and was going to get a straight answer from a demon. Yeah, and Dean was really named Daisy, and he liked long walks on the beach at sunset.

"I already told you. I need hunters. Specifically, you two."

This was just too much fun. Sam was staring at the demon-girl like she was lecturing at one of his precious classes. Like he was taking her _seriously_. Dean wanted to swat him or say something, just get his attention, but he could scarcely afford to blink what with her standing right in front of them.

"Why us?"

Dean hissed his irritation over Sam's willingness to talk -- you don't talk, because the more you talk, the more the demon knows. It's an opening. They crawl into your skin and use what they find against you, unless they're literally inside and then you're just lost unless you know someone smart enough to know how to find you again. Which most people didn't. Apparently Sam had been sleeping through all of those times dad drilled it into them. Funny how he could remember Calculus and Psychology of Whateverthefuck at Stanford, but he couldn't remember basic survival.

"Because no other hunter has such a keen interest in dispatching demons."

Dean thought _I'm about to dispatch you, bitch_, but kept it inside because he wasn't stupid. She flicked her weird-ass eyes over to him, looking like a poster child for liver failure, and gave him a look like she knew anyway. Well, shit.

Sam stayed silent this time. He was probably confused. Dean knew he was. There was no handbook for this, and no entry in dad's journal. Conversing With Demons 101.

She went on. "I'm not talking exorcisms or protective circles. I'm talking about killing them. Pity your dad died, he'd have been more of an asset. He spent such a long time trying to find ways, once he figured out it was a demon…"

"I hate to be the one to ask stupid questions, here, but." He got through that half of a sentence before common sense kicked in and he shut the fuck up again. Stupid, stupid. You don't talk.

She actually rolled her eyes at him. It reminded him of Meg, a little, and her attitude problem. Dean never figured demons were the type for sarcasm and stupid jokes, but Meg and this bitch were well on their way to showing him what was what. "But aren't _I_ a demon? Yes, it was a stupid question." She turned to Sam, walked forward another step or two so they were nearly nose to nose.

Dean figured this was the biggest chance at anything he was going to get, unless she was actually a witch or a shapeshifter and just fucking with them. He watched her face for a minute, made sure she was focused on Sam, and ever so carefully raised his hand to his jacket. The holy water was just inside the pocket, and if he could get some on her, she'd back off and they could run for it.

His fingers touched leather when suddenly there was a hand at his throat and his ass was becoming well acquainted with the wall. He wheezed down at her, feet scrambling for purchase, and once again cursed Satan or whoever it was that gave demons superhuman strength. No girl should be able to throw him around like a rag doll. With one arm.

"You try and hurt me, bitch, I slit your fucking throat." Dean had never been called bitch by anyone but Sam before. Well, and that one time in Georgia at the fast food place. It wasn't as funny as it should have been. It was a little terrifying, what with the dangling above the ground and losing air and staring into demonic eyes. "I don't need two of you."

"O-kay," Dean managed to choke, and she dropped him back to his feet. Dean coughed and sputtered and tried not to fall over, while Sam stood next to him and generally vibrated with anxiousness. While he was busy hacking, she worked her way into his jacket and pulled out the canister of holy water. It… disappeared, or maybe flew across the room with his gun, Dean wasn't all that sure. Point was, she got rid of it. And then she adjusted the lapels of his jacket like she was his mom or girlfriend or something. Oh, _nice_.

"Now that we've got the ground rules covered." She smiled, and through watering eyes Dean managed to hate that expression just a little bit more. "You don't try and kill me, I don't try and kill you. I just need… something from you."

"An exorcism?" Dean muttered, or tried to mutter; it came out all ragged. He'd given up on the not-talking thing, because clearly it was pointless. Too bad dad wasn't around so Dean could shove that particular fact in his face.

"Funny."

"I thought so." His eyes were still watering, and his throat felt funny, but otherwise Dean was coming back to himself after his brief encounter with asphyxiation. This part of dealing with bad guys sucked. He didn't mind burns as much as he did being strangled, there was just something so personal and horrific about it. "We kill demons, or find out how to kill demons. Demons that aren't you, I mean. Whoever you are." Because clearly she was _special_.

"We kill the demons," she said slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "before they can kill _me_."

Well. That clarified a few things. Sort of.


End file.
